


Aftermath

by eyegnats



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst fic, Blue Lions Lose, Dead Dimitri Immediate Aftermath, Dead Dimitri: Do Not Eat, Faerghus Loyalty, Felix Losing it While Hunched Over Dimitri's Body, Ghost Lover, Ingrid Also Losing It, It's Not That Graphic That's Just a Funny Tag, M/M, Public Confessions, Surrender Politics, Vague descriptions of violence, that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:28:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23499022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyegnats/pseuds/eyegnats
Summary: When Dimitri falls, the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus shatters into a thousand fragile, latticed paths forward.Felix finds himself at the helm.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 11
Kudos: 79





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> I have made a new AO3 account, and have started [Twitter](https://twitter.com/GnatsGonzalez). You should follow me! 
> 
> TW: character death, hostage situation, brief implication of suicide.

Dimitri’s body hits the floor with the sound of thick fabric dampening metal. Muffled armor settles and Ingrid shrieks at a level that would be unnatural if it was not so painfully, recognizably human. Felix freezes. A lance is now pointed at his throat but he is perfectly still, watching the tableau of fabric and fur and blood and little colored shards of glass. Sunlight seeps through a magic-shattered window and Dedue steps into it to check the body Felix already knows is growing colder by the second. 

He tries to stumble towards his King but the lance from before stops him. A man, distantly familiar in the haze of the moment, shouts at him from atop a horse. Felix blinks at him. He sees his mouth moving but he can barely hear. Sound is dark and murky and dampened. As if The King’s thick cloak has settled over his senses. “Dimitri,” he says, slow, to no one, and he feels his mouth move and his vocal chords constrict but he hears no name leave his lips. 

Sylvain is there. Sylvain is standing in front of an Emperor. Sylvain is doing what Felix cannot, arms outstretched, stationing himself between her and where Dedue shelters the husk The King has left behind.

Then, all of a sudden, reality returns the a shock of lightning down Felix’s spine. Horses are neighing. The lance at his throat is sharp. In the far corner, Annette’s cheeks are streaked with tears. In the center, Dedue clutches The King’s body close. Sylvain’s words to the hostile leader are fast and shaking. Ingrid’s screams are—

“—NO!” she yells, and Felix watches her reach for the dagger strapped to her thigh. She’s so fast but Felix sees the arc of her movements, the tilt of the blade towards her own heart.

“Felix—“ Sylvain starts to say but Felix is already moving, dodging away from his opponent and ducking towards Ingrid. He tackles her to the ground. The knife clatters and slides across cracked marble. 

“No,” Ingrid says, fighting against him. “No, no—No! Let me go! Let me—Let me finish this!” She kicks up, scratches her nails down his armor, but Felix holds her to the ground, grits his teeth and waits, until her struggling gives way to only meek punches. 

“Ingrid. It’s over,” he states.

Her screams of anger die in her throat. She lies there. Horrified. Her breaths are heavy beneath him. She looks up at the ceiling with wide, dilated eyes. Felix feels each thread of her muscles when they finally concede, falling lax under his hands. 

He loosens his grip on her and looks back to the foreign invaders. The throne room has grown quiet at their scene but no less tense. The Emperor gazes at him in appraisal. Then turns her attention to the body at the center of the room.

“Kill the nobles,” she orders, simply.

Knights move forward. Felix goes from offensive to defensive over Ingrid. He feels his crest boil in his blood, overworked and running like fire through him. Ingrid does not move.

“Whoa,” Sylvain says, stepping closer to the Emperor with his arms still raised. She lifts her axe. “Whoa, hey. He’s dead—He’s dead! We surrender.”

“I’ve heard no such surrender,” she tells him.

“Well, this is it. This is the surrender,” Sylvain is saying but the knights are moving towards him, too. Felix knows he cannot defend both of them. Either of them.

“Do you command this army now?” The Emperor’s question is sharp, accusative. Sylvain shrugs down at her words.

“I,” he starts, “I’m head of House—“

Someone clears their throat. A dark, brooding man steps forward with his hands clasped behind his back. Felix knows him to be the leading Adrestian General. “If I may,” he interrupts.

The Emperor glances at him. “Yes, Hubert.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Hubert nods to her with a small bow. Then, twists his head around and gives a sickening grin to Sylvain. “I believe in the event of the Royal House Blaiddyd meeting its... unfathomable end, House Fraldarius has ruling rights for immediate next steps.”

Sylvain’s gaze snaps to Felix. The rest of the heads turn like porcelain dolls on shelves to look at the second son of Fraldarius, each one blank-faced and expectant. Only Sylvain appears to course with real blood. He’s terrified, his hair mussed and eyes sunken and desperate, but he is still alive. Felix attempts to stand. For him. 

“Don’t you dare,” Ingrid says, low and growling. He looks down at where she is slumped on the floor. “Don’t you dare surrender,” she says. 

“Felix,” Sylvain calls out. “He’s dead. It’s not worth it.”

Felix begins to step toward the crowd around The King’s body. Step after careful step, walking into the waiting jaws of a conqueror. Ingrid’s shrill voice follows him. She screams, “we can fight, we can still _fight_ , we can rip at their seams, bite at the beast that bleeds us dry, wring every last ounce of pain we can from their banners until they—!”

“It’s not worth it. We have thousands of people to think of and they’re out there right now, giving their lives for a dead King—“

“Coward! Stand and fight to the last breath! Like a knight! Like a Fraldarius!”

“I won’t lose Ingrid,” Sylvain yells, now, “And I won’t lose you. I can’t. I can’t.” His voice is rushed. Panicked.

“Don’t listen to Sylvain! He’s a coward!”

“I am. I wish I wasn’t. Felix. Please.”

Felix stops before his King and lets his knees hit the floor. Everyone in the room, hostile and friend, watches as he gently lifts a hand towards Dedue.

Dedue lowers The King’s body from where he had curled it against his chest in protection. Blood is smeared across his chestplate. The King’s head lulls to the side without support. 

Felix’s fingertips find familiar skin. They press into The King’s cheek and hold there. It’s still warm, he’s still warm, but blood no longer beats beneath the scarred surface. “I’m sorry,” Felix says. His voice is shaky. “Dimitri.”

“I grow impatient.” 

It is the foreign Emperor. Her troops stir behind her, eager for a signal to slaughter. Felix pulls his hand back from his oldest friend and gazes up at Dedue, lost.

“Tell me what to do,” he says, quietly, but he knows the whole throne room is straining to hear his decision. 

“That is not my place,” Dedue answers him. His face is drained, eyes unfocused. There’s an aching sadness in his voice that cracks through his stoicness. “...This is no longer my kingdom.”

“Fuck,” Felix says. Then, “Damn it.” Time weighs down on him and the Emperor shifts her weight to another boot but his mind is blank, full of nothing but the blurred image of Dimitri’s body being slowly lowered to the ground. Dedue places his legs down first, before cradling his head and gently settling it upon the marble. His crown clicks against it. Felix watches the reverence of each action. Clutches at the ground and feels his fingertips scrape tile.

It hits him, suddenly. His whole body shakes.

“He’s dead,” Felix says.

“Yes,” Dedue replies.

“I loved him,” Felix says, quieter.

“He knew,” Dedue replies, at equal level.

“ _Damn it._ ”

Pain flickers in Felix’s chest. Time and breath grow short.

“Felix,” Dedue says. “I will respect your choice, even if it is not my own, but I will not be your tie-break. You need to make a decision. Now.”

Felix laughs a short, bitter laugh. “So you do have a preference.”

“Everyone in this room has their preference. And they do not align. This is what it means to be a leader. To be a King.”

Dedue is quiet. Ingrid is quiet. Sylvain is quiet. The Emperor, a pillar of patience, is quiet. Felix is no king. But in their expectations and panic and hopes and deep, desolate fears the fuzzy outline of a path forward manifests. It branches into dozens of endings for them, none of the good, but a few of them survivable.

Is that what he wants? What he wanted? For himself? For Dimitri? To survive?

After everything he said, every cruel word, was that the simple heart of it?

“...Sylvain,” he says. He looks up at his childhood friend. Sylvain gives him a weak smile despite everything, and nods.

“Here,” he says.

Felix stands. Attempts to steady his voice. “House Fraldarius relinquishes all rights to rule the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus onto House Gautier, under the impression that he will negotiate fair terms of surrender,” he states, and when he glances back at Dimitri’s body he sees Dedue give a small, pleased smile.

“Coward,” Ingrid says. But it’s weak, defeated.

Sylvain sounds nearly identical. “Felix, you can’t—“ His eyes are wide. “I can’t lead us through this. Are you crazy?”

“Well I want to rip the Adrestian Emperor’s throat from her well-armored neck,” Felix states. “So between you, me, and Ingrid, you’re by far the best option here.”

To his surprise, the Emperor simply laughs at him. Her axe is swung over her shoulder and she smiles at Sylvain. “Well? What is your decision, Son of Gautier?”

Sylvain drops his lance. “The Holy Kingdom of Faerghus formally surrenders.”

Felix releases the swordsheath and dagger at his belt. They clatter to the floor. He watches as Sylvain’s shoulders square, his posture heightens, and his nerves steel. Margrave Gautier steps forward as the leader of Faerghus with the sort of false, brazen confidence he has long learned to wield.

“We need to end this. Annette,” he calls. “Where’s Annette?”

“I’m here,” a small voice says. Annette looks battered where she stands up against the far wall of the throne room. Blood leaks from her nose across her face.

“Can you walk?”

“I’m hanging in there."

“Good,” Sylvain nods. He looks around to all of them. Settles on Dedue. “Dedue, I need you to escort Annette close to the front lines. Annette, send the signal to call everything off. It’s done.”

Dedue nods and rises to his feet. Annette limps to join him.

“Should I...” she starts. “...Should I do the dead king one? Or just the surrender signal?”

“Tell them he’s dead,” Sylvain says.

“Telling your troops their king has been murdered will only insight more violence,” the Emperor replies.

“And telling them to stop fighting while their King still breathes is useless,” Sylvain says. “You’ve witnessed firsthand today what Faerghus loyalty looks like.”

The Emperor pauses, and then nods. “Fine then. But we will send a convoy with your signal flare.”

Knights step forward and around Annette, and Felix’s heart aches at the way her cheeks puff out at them in protest. Dedue places a hand on her shoulder and they begin their descent from the throne room.

“Felix,” Sylvain says. Felix looks to him. “Don’t hate me.”

"I won't.” 

“Good. Because I need you and Ingrid to play nice.” He turns to Ingrid. “Ingrid—“

Ingrid looks away from him. “You are not my king.”

“I’m not. I know I’m not. Just. Don’t—Don’t kill yourself. Please. For me.”

With that, Sylvain steps forward and drops to one knee before the Emperor. She lifts her head and soaks in the sight. There is a relief to her actions, a simple joy to her conquest. A human woman beneath heavy armor. 

“I, Margrave Sylvain Jose Gautier offer myself of House Gautier, Felix of Fraldarius, and Ingrid of Galatea up as captives to ensure the cooperation of our respective territories and to encourage fellow territories surrender. Assuming you don’t kill us immediately, that should make the acquisition of the remaining Kingdom holdouts easier and keep casualties to a minimum.”

“A reasonable offer, Margrave.”

“Being good at losing is hardly a compliment, Your Majesty. But thanks.”

Knights stride forward and Felix feels gauntlets grip his body and tug his arms roughly behind his back. He’s marched away. To where, he doesn’t know. They shouldn’t even know where to go. This is Dimitri’s castle. This is Dimitri’s territory. A protective streak flares up through his crest-bound blood but it catches on Ingrid, weaponless and silently struggling against her new captors. She catches his eye. Falters. A knight seizes the opportunity, kicking at the back of her legs and forcing her to kneel.

“Don’t hurt her,” Sylvain pleads from somewhere behind where Felix can see on his evermarch forward. “Please.”

“Easy,” the Emperor calls to her knights. “One martyr is enough for the day.”

Hubert steps forward, ushering the knights along. “Secure some quarters for those two. We’ll take Gautier ourselves for, ah, negotiations.” He smiles a long, pleased smile at Felix. “I expect we’ll be here a while.”

Felix overhears the Emperor asking for a team to remove The King’s body as he is escorted out of the room. He hears Sylvain arguing for a worthy funeral, for burial rights, and then great, oak doors shut and Felix is in a stone hallway. Only the barest trace of muffled voices follow him out.

The quarters he is thrown into are tight, windowless, and easily guarded. Hours pass without knowledge of time or any presented meals. He lies on the foreign bed in a familiar castle, stares up at the low ceiling, and waits for the future in all its uncertainty. An arm curls around him—a phantom limb, pressing him close and dragging a thumbpad along his cheek. His body goes rigid.

“Thank you,” a voice says, cool and even. It’s next to his ear but there is no voice, no thumb, no arm. There is no one in bed with him but a false visage laced with grief. Nothing but a lingering desire to hear the voices of the dead Dimitri once so vividly claimed to manifest.

Something presses its lips to Felix’s jaw and murmurs, soft, “you should have told me such feelings haunted you.”

Felix shakes his head to deter his imagination. The voice continues despite him: “I would have said yes.”

Felix sits straight up in bed. 

The cold quiet seeps into his bones. All is still. If the guards were shifting outside his door or even present at all he could not hear them. He could only hear the sharp silence and whatever it was that insisted on nullifying it.

“Dimitri,” he says, but there is nothing to answer him. There is nothing but a furious Ingrid banging at a distant door somewhere that he cannot hear, nothing but an exhausted Sylvain at a round table of hostile threats mocking his defeat. “I tried,” Felix says to nothing. “I tried my best. I kept them alive. Maybe you did want blood, I don’t know. I don’t care. I kept them alive.”

There’s quiet again. Then, the nothing answers. “Felix,” it murmurs, “I could not have asked for anything more from you.”

Felix lets phantom limbs coax him back down onto the bed. Lets himself be rearranged by invisible strings seeking only his comfort. He turns his head to stare at nothing.

“Don’t leave me,” he asks, feeling mad but unashamed.

“You deserve more than the voices of ghosts. I would never subject you to such a fate.”

“You’re leaving me to this one, Dimitri. That’s hardly fair.”

“I know,” the nothing says. “Please, someday, forgive me.”

A kiss on his lips this time. A fantasy gone too far. Felix scrunches his eyes closed and with a jagged edge of concentration reality returns. There’s the soft hum of wind down castle corridors and the chattering of distant guards. The bed is empty, as it had always been. As it was meant to be.

“I loved you,” Felix says to nothing, and nothing answers back.


End file.
